


Headfirst Slide into Cooperstown on a Bad Bet

by queenlara



Series: College Verse (the "of All Time" verse) [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, M/M, StreetRacing, in which Steve and Natasha need to Stop, natasha is a bamf, panic attack warning, streetracing with RUMLOW, what could possibly go wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3464783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlara/pseuds/queenlara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greatest race of All Time. Or, that jerk Brock Rumlow picks a fight with Steve, and Natasha thinks they should settle it the old fashioned way - streetracing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Headfirst Slide into Cooperstown on a Bad Bet

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, some hardcore emotional stuff! And by that, I mean watch out for Natasha's panic attack near the end, things get dicey.
> 
> Special thanks to Rachel for texting me about a million times until I edited this. Shit got done. Anyway, enjoy another romp in our college verse!

It starts like this.

It’s a friday, and Natasha and Steve both get out of their last class in the early afternoon. As per usual, they meet up in the lobby of the math building and decide where they want to go for lunch. It’s usually somewhere different, as they prefer to choose places they’ve never gone before and they only recently began to make a dent in the options on campus (to be honest, most of them suck).

Steve, of course,  goes for broke and pulls the dining hall menu up on his phone. “Nat, look!” he beams, shoving the dim screen in Natasha’s face. “They’re serving pork barbecue today. _Pork barbecue_ , Natasha!”

She bats his phone away with a hint of disgust. “Ugh, no. We are _not_.”

“But.” Steve deflates, crestfallen, and seriously, he has to know _exactly_ how well that look works in getting unsuspecting victims to agree to anything. “We always see people we know there!”

 _Not this time_ , Natasha thinks. “Yeah,” she agrees, “which is why we aren’t going.”

Steve exhales noisily and plucks at the strap of his messenger bag. The lobby is busy with students rushing to their next class, and Natasha takes the opportunity to recline against the  floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the front wall. She sighs inwardly and waits.

After a moment, Steve wheedles, “We could try skateboarding down that steep staircase by the parking lot again?”

She gives him a considering look. Bad move.

“God, _fine_.”

***

They’re literally _five steps_ into the dining room when Steve spots one of his weird club friends. At first, Natasha suspects they’re at least one of the moderately normal kids from the cooking club, but lo and behold, as she follows after Steve and they get closer—no, absolutely not, they _cannot_ be associated with these people.

Natasha clamps a hand over Steve’s bicep and hauls him back a step. And—oh thank god, there’s enough people milling around that Steve’s friends haven’t noticed them yet. That would be the beginning of the end.

“Is that the _entire_ anime club?” Natasha asks, skeptical, and somehow she manages to keep the Absolute Cringe out of her voice. “Oh no, Steve, it doesn’t look like they have enough space at the table for us. Let’s get that empty one way over there.”

She stops him just as he raises his hand to wave at them, and she’s instantly met with a look of innocent confusion. “It looks like they got two seats free, what are you—”

“Doesn’t matter,” she tells him patiently, hooking her arm more firmly into the crook of his and patting it with her free hand. She steers Steve toward the table she saw safely hidden behind one of the archways. “You know I need a third for my feet.”

He doesn’t put up much resistance, at least. “Um, alright,” he says, sounding unsure.

Steve, bless him, is naïve enough to join the dorkiest clubs and think they’re _so much fun Nat you should come with me sometime and meet all my cool friends!_ Honestly, she doesn’t know why she even tries anymore. Steve can’t help but see the best in people; she and James have no clue how he does it, but Steve has somehow managed to be friends with everyone.

They set their plates down, Steve hurrying to pull Natasha’s chair out for her and getting an eye-roll for his trouble—though unbeknownst to him, she hides a fond smile in her jacket collar. But before they can actually sit down, across the dining room they hear it.

See, Steve is friends with everyone.

“Hey, Rogers! What’s it like fucking a mannequin?”

Except Rumlow. _Fuck_ Rumlow.

He’s the kind of guy that stays up late in other girls’ dorms every night and gets unbelievably loud and obnoxious during quiet hours.

The kind of guy that would pick up a guitar at a mixer and, instead of jumping into Wonderwall, would say, “I’m not that kind of guy. Anyway, here’s Creep by Radiohead.”

Sometimes he’s easy to ignore, but sometimes he’s—

“It’s polite to answer when you’re asked a question, meathead.”

The jerk makes it his business to come ambling over to their table, but for once, it seems Rumlow’s gang of pussies are too involved in their lunch to join him.

“Rumlow,” Natasha sneers, though it’s subtle, a slight curl to her lip. “Do you have to do this now?”

“Romanoff,” he answers in kind, stopping a few feet from the table. “Do you have to be such a bitch?”

Ooh. Sick burn, there. It’s almost like the idiot hasn’t reached the maturity of a fourth-grader yet. Oh wait.

“We’re eating.” Natasha crosses her arms and shoots Steve a warning look. He looks a million times more affronted on her behalf than he ever has for himself—she caught the slight flush on his cheeks when Rumlow alluded to something going on between him and Barnes, but he’d almost been ready to let it go. Now though, Steve’s fists are clenched at his sides, which isn’t surprising.

She glances back to Rumlow. “It’s unsanitary,” she finishes.

Maybe they can avoid the fight Steve is sure to start with him if this continues. Again.

Rumlow ignores her. “You wanna go, Rogers? You look like you do.”

Too late.

“You bet I do,” and bless that child, he’s already pushing his sleeves up, “Mouthing off to a lady like that, you should be ashamed.”

Ah, here it comes.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size.”

Natasha rolls her eyes heavenward and sighs, put upon. She makes sure to grab her bookbag before stepping toward the exit. So much for lunch. “Alright boys, time to become men. How you do.”

***

The parking lot behind the dining hall is blessedly empty when they reach it. Rumlow stalks off to a shaded spot beneath a cluster of trees, Steve hot on his tail, and Natasha can’t bring herself to be interested in the proceedings. She stares longingly at the staircase that runs down the steep hill from the soccer field and recalls the first time she convinced Steve to grind down the wonky railing with borrowed skateboards.

It’s too bad Sam and James showed up right before Steve attempted to go down backwards. _Missed opportunities_ , she recalls.

“Right here, right now,” Rumlow proclaims, bringing his hands forward to crack his knuckles. “Ready for a worse wailing than last time?”

‘Last time’ being that scene Brock made at the halloween party last year, when Steve met up with a nice girl he knew from one of his design classes, and it turned out Rumlow had been eyeing her like a piece of meat all night. Safe to say, no wailing of any nature occured. More like Tony Stark, the klutz, bumped into Rumlow who then crashed into Steve and sent him sprawling into the apple-bobbing bucket. Natasha won’t let him forget it, either. She has _pictures_.

“Yawn,” Natasha says. She slips her phone from her jacket pocket and pulls up Icanhazcheezburger, only, she’s interrupted momentarily when Steve nudges her.

“Nat, hold my inhaler.”

She takes it readily and smiles beatifically, “Kick his ass, baby. I got yo inhaler.”

Ten or so feet away, Rumlow shouts, “You have shit-taste in memes, Romanoff!”

Natasha gasps, and her gaze snaps to him. “You better take that back, shitlord,” she hisses, “Or _else_.”

The guy just scoffs and ignores her. He turns his attention back to Steve, not that she’s jealous, or anything. Rumlow is a slimeball, and if looks could kill... his are harmless enough, but always tend to make her feel gross all over, no matter the occasion.

Steve has already crossed the distance to stand in front of him.

“Put ‘em up,” Steve prompts with raised fists, jumping up on his tiptoes. _Really, Rogers? Talk about second-hand embarrassment._

Rumlow sneers, which only serves to make his ugly mug even uglier, and he takes a second to spit on the ground to his right. _Men,_ Natasha mocks inwardly as she switches her focus back to her phone.

“I bet you’re a real pussy,” Rumlow jeers. Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha sees that they’re circling each other now. If this is anything like the halloween party, which it obviously is, Rumlow’s about to eat his words. “Just like that otaku pansy you’re rooming with. Wilson, right?”

As you’d expect, Rumlow’s derogatory comebacks are neither inspired nor intelligent. Alright, she’s being generous. Insult her taste in memes—which age like a fine-ass wine, she’ll have him know—fine, rolls right off her back. Call Sam a pussy? The argument could very well be made. A pansy? Citations needed.

But— _the fuck did he just call that precious ball of sunshine?_

She’ll shove an otaku right down that douche-canoe’s _throat_.

“Stop!” she calls out as she plants her hands on her hips, jutted out like wonder woman in the way that one article said made you feel fantastic and superior. Which in this case, is true. Now if only she could truth lasso the fuck out of these two idiots. “Shit just got real. We need to settle this, _old school_.”

Steve seems uneager to take his eyes off of Rumlow, but he spares Natasha a dubious glance over his shoulder. “I worry what you mean by _old school_.”

She lifts one shoulder in a delicate shrug. Across the pavement, Natasha meets Rumlow’s cutting gaze with a cool one of her own. She smirks.

“Streetracing.”

***

“Where did you learn how to hotwire a car, Rogers? I’m almost impressed,” Natasha says as Steve sparks the wires together, waiting for the tell-tale roar of the engine.

Steve drags himself out from under the wheel and over the leather seat. “Uh, you know. _Places_. Don’t tell Peggy.”

“Steven Rogers,” Natasha says wonderingly. Then she can’t help it—Steve is _such_ a mama’s boy—she laughs. “Nice choice of wheels, too.”

He chuckles nervously and rubs at the back of his neck, taking the chance to lean back against the car door when he closes it. “I’ve never been in a streetrace before. Racing stripes didn’t seem like a bad idea.”

“Nope,” she agrees, and kicks at one of the front tires of the camaro with the toe of her boot. “Seems good to go, anyway.”

Natasha glances around; the parking deck is one of the few close to campus, and she’d figured it easy pickings given most students who used it were gone for the weekend by now. Only a few cars were left behind, scattered beneath the low-ceiling and bad lighting, though its a wonder she managed to convince Steve to ‘borrow’ one.

Speaking of, Steve straightens. “This won’t take too long, right? You said. And I want to make sure the car is back where it was before somebody notices.”

They’d agreed to meet up with Rumlow around midnight on one of the wide backstreets that run behind the off-campus apartments. It was Natasha’s choice, of course; god knows neither of those idiots had the brains to come up with anything better at the time. They would’ve gone for anything.

Natasha rolls her eyes before she turns back to Steve. She arches an eyebrow at the same time that she hikes her boot up on the front bumper, checks the heel for her pocketknife then, subtle, pulls it off as tightening the laces. A lock of her hair falls forward into her face and she quickly tucks it behind her ear.

With a huff, she jerks her chin at the driver’s seat.  “Sure. Get in, Rogers.”

It’s been a while since she last... participated, in a race. Not since before the accident, and what happened to James. Natasha had thought those times behind her when they both left the gang, but now, well—she slips easily into the passenger side and lets herself enjoy the beginning tremble of adrenaline beneath her skin as Steve guns it out of the deck.

Steve’s got a veteran on his side, so what could go wrong?

Famous last words.

***

Rumlow is already waiting for them when they arrive. Since Steve is such a conscientious driver, he wouldn’t go a single mile over the speed limit and so they end up arriving a few minutes late—really, Natasha tends to forget that riding with Steve is such an absolute bore. Even a _babushka_ drives faster than he does, not that she’d ever say it to his face.

The wide, single lane of West Street stretches out ahead of them at the next turn, a little over a football field’s length of distance, which is just what she had in mind. This being a less used street in a predominantly student neighborhood, the chances of running into trouble and the race dragging out were low. That made it the perfect choice, actually.

A red mustang meets them when Steve drives to the opposite end, that and a suitable crowd of Rumlow’s squad, all fourteen members of the tactical team. Most of the guys have taken seats on the crumbling remains of the brick wall that curls the corner, excepting Rumlow, who is pulled up by the curb in his obnoxious gas-chugger.

 _Bringing your own car to a streetrace_ , Natasha muses. _How stupid can a single neanderthal be?_

As soon as the group spots Steve at the wheel of the camaro, they burst into hoots and crows. Natasha doesn’t believe herself susceptible of being egged on, but, she gives Steve a concerned look, because Steve _is_.

“About time you showed up, meathead!” Rumlow hollers out of his car window as Steve turns and takes the open spot beside the mustang.

Natasha sighs, but keeps her cool, clicking the button for her window. When it slides down, she props her elbow on it and lazily twirls a piece of gum around a finger.

She hums, sends Rumlow an unimpressed side-eye. “Overeager, aren’t you?”

A vein bulges comically in Rumlow’s forehead, and he leans forward to look around her at Steve. “Meathead! Ready when you are.” He revs his engines pointedly, smirking.

Steve hasn’t been unaffected by all of this. In fact, Natasha notices the tight little frown his mouth has formed as he stares straight ahead. If he’s trying to ignore Rumlow, it’s obviously not working. The second he takes one hand off the wheel to switch gears, she sees the deep indent in the leather where his hand was clenching too hard.

Slowly, quietly, natasha asks, “You sure you’re up for this?” She allows her concern to seep into her words for once. For all she makes fun of James for being a grumpy mother hen, she’d be damned if she didn’t take care of her friends.

He gives her a minute shake of his head before he offers up a private little smile. “I’ll be alright, Nat. It’s Rumlow I’m worried about. When he loses...” He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and they both giggle like absolute children.

“Okay, seriously,” Natasha cuts them off, straightening in her seat. Beside her, Rumlow revs his engine again, to the delighted jeering of his friends, and sends Steve a nasty grin. Natasha maturely quells her grimace. “Kick that guy’s ass.”

Just then, the VP of the tactical team— _What do they even do_ , Natasha wonders, _probably play video games or something—_ steps away from the group. He lumbers, indifferent, to a spot a few feet ahead of the cars with his hands sunk low in the pockets of his jacket.

 _Ugh, is that Grant Ward?_ Natasha does grimace now. Steve, on the other hand, isn’t nearly as disgusted by that slimeball’s presence as he should be.

“Fellas,” Ward addresses, then leans a bit forward with a curling smile, “and lady. Rules are: there are no rules. Two loops, to that end,” he gestures a hand over his shoulder, toward the end of the street where Steve and Natasha had pulled in from, “and back here. First to do so wins.”

As soon as he finishes, Ward fishes a neon green bandana out of his pocket. “Ready when I say.”

Natasha can feel her nails digging into the upholstery on her armrest. She inhales, nice and slow, and exchanges a quick look with Steve. They’re going to do this. Okay. But they’re going to do this and _win._

Ward lifts the bandana in front of him, chest level. The street is silent save for the sound of Rumlow revving his car a third time—one of these days, he’s going to ruin his own engine, and Natasha will laugh. And maybe slash three tires to spite him (she learned, the hard way, that if you slash all four tires the insurance will cover it).

“Rumlow,” she whispers. “More like Rum _slow_.”

Then Ward drops the bandana, and the second it hits the pavement, Steve and Rumlow tear off, the screeching of wheels barely enough to muffle Steve’s chuffing laughter.

There’s very little for Natasha to do aside from holding on for dear life. The camaro takes off like a horse out of the gates, and with Steve crushing the gas pedal the way he is, they’re already pushing sixty—a surprise in itself, given how steadfast Steve holds to road laws, but she guesses that’s more to do with Rumlow than anything else. As it is, the wind rushing in through the windows makes it impossible to be heard. So instead of saying anything, she guffaws and tosses her head back, her hair a crazed tangle behind her.

To their right, Rumlow is ahead by four, maybe five inches. The end of the street is almost upon them, and Steve is smart enough to slow in time to make the turn smoothly while the mustang overtakes it. It gives them the chance to get ahead by a good ten, fifteen feet, streaking back toward the starting line.

Steve turns again a second early, jerky and with a wide enough sweep that a few of the onlookers have to jump out of the way when the camaro bumps up over the curb.

“Go, Steve. Go!” Natasha crows, her face lit up like it’s fucking Christmas Day. Which in that moment, it might as well be for all the excitement-fueled adrenaline currently making her blood pound. As they zoom away, Rumlow is only now pulling into the turn—right on their tail.

One last turn to go, and they’re almost there! Steve really guns it now, speed limit be damned to hell because Rumlow has caught up by half the distance as before.

“He’s catching up quick!” Natasha yells over the roar of the cars.

“Not on my watch,” Steve replies, pressing all the way down on the pedal the second they make the turn. Rumlow is still right on their tail—he’s learned how to make the turn, then. And suddenly everything’s a blur of streetlights and the apartments zooming past.

Then—oh holy _shit_ —

They’re probably halfway back to the starting line, a minute or two from winning the race, when out of nowhere a couple of Rumlow’s friends are on the side of the street, pushing a pile of garbage cans in the direct path of the camaro.

Steve responds before Natasha does; he yells something she loses in the proceeding chaos. Swerving to avoid a crash, Steve loses control of the wheel. They skid, speeding right off the street and into one of the few trees scattered between the apartment buildings. The front of the car meets the trunk and crushes inward instantly, a jarring action that resonates throughout the rest of the car and sends Natasha and Steve crashing forward.

The airbags go off, and Natasha—she doesn’t know what happens after. She blacks out for what could’ve been seconds, but feels more like _minutes_. The inside of the car is loud with the creaking of metal and tearing upholstery. That, and most worrying of all, when Natasha manages the strength to elbow the airbag out of her way, the tell-tale trickle of something warm down the side of her face, she looks over to find Steve  and he’s too quiet, too _still_ , thrown back in his seat with his head dangerously close to the bits of cracked glass left in place of his window.

“Steve,” she croaks, her throat burning. No, not this, not—she can’t let anything happen to someone she cares about, not _ever_ again. God damnit, not—

There’s a horribly long moment where neither she nor Steve move at all. The car has gone quiet now, and Natasha aches, moreso on the inside, like she’s breaking, than anything else. But then Steve’s eyes open and his sudden coughing fit fills the car.

He’s banged up for sure. A bruise is already forming along his jaw and one of his cheeks is visibly swollen, but he’s _okay._ He’s okay and the first thing that shithead says to Natasha is—

“Nat,” he coughs through the tears pricking his eyes, “can you hand me my inhaler?”

Natasha is _not_ going to cry. Not quite. Her relief shows through, even though she means her words to be scathing. “Holy shit, Rogers. You scared me half to death.”

She tries to lunge over the console to hug him; not easy, with the airbags and the fact that the front of the car is _literally crushed on top of them_. Steve is serious about his inhaler though, and she makes quick work of pulling the knife from her boot and sawing her way out of both their seatbelts. It takes a couple solid kicks to get her door open. The second she does, she sprints around to the other side and hauls Steve out with an arm around his chest.

“Stay with me,” she orders. “I swear to God, if you don’t—”

She practically jams the inhaler down his throat when she shoves it in his face. Steve is agreeable enough with lying flat on the ground, taking a few hits from his inhaler while he stares dazedly at the wreckage of the borrowed camaro.

Shit. This’ll be a fun one to explain to Fury. Natasha worries her lip for a brief moment, weighing their options, what to tell the Chancellor, or should she say, _how_ much. But then, the two of them, Steve on the ground with Natasha crouched over him, are interrupted by the appearance of, fuck, Rumlow and the rest of his batshit insane friends.

“Looks like I’m the winner,” Rumlow says breezily, the fucker. And his cronies are no better, laughing in response. They leer down at her and Steve—and hell, Natasha is already sure she has a concussion, because her vision is going blurry, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be any worse in a fight. As it is, she’s about four seconds away from knocking Rumlow’s ass-ugly block off.

“A cheat,” Steve wheezes. Natasha tries to shush him, pulling his head over to rest in her lap, but he refuses to be silent. “You cheated and we could’ve _died_ for it. Nearly did.” He turns his head to glare weakly up at Rumlow.

“The hell are you accusing me of?” Rumlow bites back. He takes a few steps closer, a challenge. “Or is this not enough of a lesson for you, Rogers?”

Natasha scowls. “Back off,” she snarls through her teeth. “You’re a crazy stupid asshole, almost a murderer. That feel good, Rumlow? That what you wanted? We’re done here. Now either call an ambulance or get the fuck out of dodge before we do it ourselves.”

Of course, poor bastard doesn’t know when to quit. “I won, fair and square. Admit it, then we’re done here.”

Now, Natasha isn’t in the game of ranking her own levels of Pissed Off, but if she were to guess, she’d say she’s somewhere in the range of Mount Vesuvius erupting on these dickbags’ pasty white asses. Her vision is still stagnating, and it’s taking all she can muster to focus on the rise and fall of Steve’s chest and stay in the present.

Steve reaches up, squeezes her wrist. “Nat, it’s okay. Just let it go.”

Natasha only barely holds in the shakes. She gives Steve’s shoulder a squeeze back, and she straightens, best she can.

“Fine. I’ll admit it. You’re a cheating, lying bastard.”

She keeps her gaze locked on Steve, tracking his breathing as it evens out, so she doesn’t see Rumlow’s reaction. Instead, she hears the sound of a gun cocking.

“Care to repeat that?”

Ward. And where the fuck did he get a weapon?

Natasha looks up; a bad move, in retrospect, but she couldn’t not do it. The second she sees the gun, something inside her tenses up, strung taut like a fishing line about to snap. It’s a semi-automatic, same as the one she was shot with and still bears the scar from.

Fuck, that’s—

Before she can stop it, an onslaught of something terrible, _haunting_ takes hold of her, like she’s covered in too many layers and suffocating. Panic lurches in her stomach, coiling tight and making it difficult to breathe.

“Natasha!” she hears Steve call, sounding too far off to be real.

There’s the handgun, and there’s Ward, waving it around like it’s a fucking toy.

“The hell is her problem?” he says, but it too is muffled, like she’s somehow underwater. “All I’m trying to say is, the point of a lesson is to learn some—“

“Shut up!” Steve tells him, practically snarling. So uncharacteristic of Rogers that it’s confusing, and when did Steve sit up? When did he move to envelope Natasha in his heavy arms? “Just shut up, alright? And move back, she’s having a panic attack!”

Steve says something else, but it’s lost in the next wave of panic that seems to shoot up into Natasha’s throat, feeling eerily like a scream itching to be set free.

“...ain’t even loaded, jesus!” Ward seems to finish yelling.

Just then, the street is filled with the distant screech of police sirens.

“Shit,” someone says, but hell is Natasha knows who. “Someone called the cops!”

The sounds around her are too loud, too much. They leave Natasha even more disoriented than before, unable to get a grasp of what’s even happening.

Steve’s got a good hold of her now, though his voice in her ear is fading in and out with the flashbangs going off behind her eyes.

“Drop the weapon!” called out over some sort of speakerphone.

And—

“Fuck, it’s the fuzz! Run!”

The sound of feet scuffing the ground, and a high-pitched shriek follows.

Natasha squints her eyes in the too bright lights. There are a ton of them now, shining onto her and Steve’s place on the ground. Through the haze and the panic tightening in her chest, she notices the source of the shriek. It’s... Ward, maybe ten feet away, with _Coulson_ , of all people, lying on top of him.

Steve releases a strained chuckle, right by her ear. He squeezes Natasha’s hand again, runs his other one through her hair, which feels nice. Really, really nice. “You missed it, Nat. Coulson tackled that guy, you woulda had a cow if you’d seen it.”

It feels like her entire body is curling in on itself, and she doesn’t know what’s worse—the images of James, limp on the ground, flashing before her eyes, or the way Steve’s face shutters the next second, the tentative smile that had just been there gone. For the first time, she notes the fear  that has taken its place.

The sirens continue to wail, but the red beams of the ambulance are more distinctive. Shapes approach, shadowed figures Natasha is ready to lash out at should they come any closer, but Steve only holds her tighter, rocking her gently.

“Calm down, they’re just here to help, okay?” he tells her. But then he’s tensing again, his face disappearing from view.

“ _What the hell_ , Steve.”

And oh thank god, the images of James replaying in her mind like a broken film reel taper off into nothing. Because that—that’s _James_ , right here, right now.

 _Fury brought him?_ is all Natasha manages to conjure out of her splintering thoughts. The strangest part of it all is that Steve isn’t the one holding her anymore, near as she can tell. She’s sucking in breaths at a rapid rate, and though the night is pleasantly cool she feels freezing, goosebumps racing across her arms and exposed skin.

“Get the fuck on that ambulance, Steve,” James snarls, and he seems to be having a hard time getting around the other kid because Steve keeps blocking his path.

James is furious. More livid than Natasha can manage to recall and—

Oh god. She gets another flash, tries to coil herself tighter, but she’s stopped by a careful arm wrapping around her shoulders, another under her legs, easing her into a solid chest as she’s lifted off the ground.

“Steve, I swear to fucking Christ!” Dimly, it registers that Steve is literally the only thing on earth keeping James from ripping Brock Rumlow’s head off. The dickbag himself is cowering in handcuffs somewhere behind her, face-planted on the hood of a police car.

 _This isn’t how it’s supposed to go_ , she pleads inwardly. _James always gets worried but never this angry, never so visibly upset, hard as he may try to hide it._

Barnes’ voice grates at her. Steve isn’t doing a good job of calming him down—not with the way his face and body are banged up from the crash—and James’ voice is gaining a frantic edge. As the panic ebs in Natasha’s chest, and she finally gets the feeling back in her limbs, her first point of clarity is the sight of James flexing his fists as his sides, the way they tremble every time he unclenches.

He’s so upset he can’t even _look_ at Steve.

“Natasha,” someone says firmly, calling her attention to them. “Nat, hey, it’s Sam. You with me? I got you. I’m taking you to the ambulance. We’ll be there soon, just stay with me and focus. Me, just me. Breathe.”

It’s funny, or maybe not funny at all, but out of everything that has happened... this, she expected the least.

Sam holds her close in her arms, his steps careful and measured as he passes the small crowd of paramedics and cops. They part around them with enough space to reach the back of the ambulance. It feels like it takes less than a minute, Sam carrying her and setting her down. It’s only now that she realizes the shakes have stopped, and she can look up, even, catch Sam’s gaze and keep it.

If she thought James’ reaction was different, well, Sam’s is worse. His eyes are red and irritated, like he may have been crying, which doesn’t make sense, because Sam didn’t arrive with the cops until at least ten minutes ago, right?

A heavy shock-blanket is tossed over Natasha’s shoulders, and she lets the weight push her forward so her forehead can rest against her thighs. Sam takes up rubbing a soothing hand on her back.

“I know I always laugh and make fun of Barnes when you and Steve do stupid shit,” he begins, sounding oddly subdued. “But I can’t tell you with a straight face that this doesn’t bother me. Shit. I was _terrified_ when Fury had the crash radioed in. Natasha,” and suddenly he’s making a grab for her chin, tilting it up so they’re looking at eachother again. “Promise me you won’t do anything else that puts you in danger like this, not again. Please, I’m asking you. As your friend...”

And maybe it’s the phrasing, maybe it’s the alignment of the fucking stars or some other bullshit, but Natasha quirks her head to the side, at that, and she thinks she’s finally seeing Wilson in a new light.

He cares. About _Natasha_.

She can count on one hand the people who actually, truly do.

Natasha can feel the corner of her lip tugging up in a weak smile. “I get it, Wilson.” Her throat is still shot, but it doesn’t keep the lingering urge to laugh at bay. “You got yourself a deal.”

And hell, with Sam fretting over her like this after giving her the fireman carry, that, and the combined flickering of the ambulance and police lights, at the same time as Rumlow and Ward get hauled off for everything Coulson can scrounge up charges for, she can admit... it’s maybe a little bit romantic.


End file.
